"Indeed," she said, grateful for the reprieve. "There is much to reflect upon."
They continued for some time, speaking then of indifferent subjects—books, weather, even Maria's astonishment at Lady Catherine’s silver tea service. But as they neared the parsonage gate once again, Darcy paused.
"Miss Bennet, I thank you for the pleasure of your company. These walks have been... unexpectedly restorative."
Elizabeth dipped into a curtsy, her eyes meeting his for a lingering moment. "The pleasure has been mine, Mr. Darcy."
“Two days now,” she murmured to herself as she returned toward the parsonage, “and not one question I could not answer. But how long can I go on giving him half-truths? How long before he demands the whole?”
That she should discover him a third time on her walk was, by now, no great astonishment to Elizabeth Bennet. Indeed, she found herself anticipating the encounter with something nearing satisfaction. He had not deviated from the pattern she remembered, and in this moment of repetition, she felt oddly reassured. Yet, though she expected to see Mr. Darcy, she could not always anticipate the course their conversations would take—or the peculiar turns that might slip from her own tongue.
Upon their greeting, which was carried with mutual civility, Mr. Darcy, after a moment’s hesitation, inquired after her sister.
"She is very well now, thanks to you, sir. I was able to write to her and let her know where to find Mr. Bingley."
She smiled as she spoke, pleased to finally share the success of her efforts, but Mr. Darcy looked at her with furrowed brow, as if parsing every word. Elizabeth continued, unaware of his scrutiny.
"In her letter this morning, Jane wrote that Mr. Bingley had expressed genuine surprise upon meeting her in Hyde Park. He said he had no idea she was in town. It seems his sisters assured him they had written to Jane faithfully—claiming they had told her he would remain in London until the end of the season, and that he intended to return to Netherfield only after. But they also said she never answered them, which, naturally, gave him pause."
"I cannot say I am surprised by their reaction," Mr. Darcy replied slowly. "But I am saddened. After all, I am only Bingley’s friend."
Elizabeth regarded him with a gentler expression than she had perhaps intended. "I know you are. And you have been a very good one, Fitzwilliam."
It was said unconsciously, the name falling from her lips with ease, as if it had long belonged there. And in another life, it had. At Pemberley, in the quiet between duties and daylight, they had walked often—along the garden paths or beneath the shade of the elms—speaking of their sisters, their burdens, their hopes. There, she had called him Fitzwilliam with easy affection, a name softened by laughter and shared confidences. The sound had once been a comfort, a rhythm familiar to them both. But now, here, the moment passed unnoticed by her—spoken not with intention, but froma place of instinct, as though her heart had remembered what her mind had not yet realized.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes turned sharply to her, though his expression remained measured. The name struck him with a force that belied its gentleness. It sounded so natural—so right—on her lips. It stirred something deep and unbidden within him.
Yet it was wrong.
Improper.
They were not so acquainted, and she should not—could not—know him so well. That familiarity, so intimate and casually spoken, unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He did not speak at once.
Though he stood with all the rigid dignity expected of his name, within him stirred a confusion he could not neatly order. That single word—Fitzwilliam—echoed with a closeness that should not exist. She had said it as if she always had, as if they belonged to each other in a way no degree of acquaintance or social alignment could explain.
It disquieted him.
He had dreamed of her. Of course he had. Any man might. She was clever, beautiful, and unlike any woman in his circle. But dreams meant nothing—they were the idle wanderings of an unsettled mind. Fleeting. Weightless.
At least, that was what he told himself.
And yet—
There it was again. That dangerous pull. Not affection, he insisted. Never that. It was curiosity, surely. A need to solve her, to understand what she was and how she knew so much. That was all.
Still, her voice speaking his name had awakened something deeper—something he dared not name. If it was not affection, why did it feel so much like yearning?
He seized upon the mystery of her knowledge as a safer path to focus on. It was something he could examine—dissect—without risking more than his pride. Yes, better to dwell there, in the realm of logic and unanswered questions.
And so, he said nothing.
A hush settled between them, no longer companionable but strained with unspoken thoughts. Elizabeth, unaware of her slip, glanced at him with quiet concern. His sudden withdrawal unsettled her. Had she offended? What had she said?
Her words had seemed ordinary.
They walked on, the gravel path crunching beneath their feet, the silence stretching taut. She watched him from the corner of her eye, but he gave no sign of returning to their earlier ease. His gaze remained fixed ahead, brow drawn, as if his thoughts were far from the spring-green lane they traveled.
